


And All His Scars Are Mine

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, FTM John Watson, Kinda, Loving Marriage, M/M, Married Life, Negotiations, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Assault, Possessive John Watson, Possessive Sherlock, Scarification, Trans Character, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: “stars are the scars of the universe”― Ricky Maye, Barefoot ChristianitySherlock isn't right in the head, he never has been. John never claimed him to be, nor did he ever claim himself to be the picture of mental health. Sherlock whispers his desires for blood and pain in the night and John indulges him as any good husband would.Just a little moment in the marriage and life of John and Sherlock Watson-Holmes. Could, possibly, be read alone. One of the few that can be.





	And All His Scars Are Mine

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: not trans, don't speak for trans people, if I come off as offensive, please talk to me.
> 
> WARNING: minor discussion of Johns assault at Moriarty's hands.
> 
> If you want to read this as a stand alone you can, only thing you need to know about my universe is-  
> A. John is a trans man.  
> B. Moriarty abducted John and had Sebastian Moran rape him that night before the pool  
> C. Post fall, John never got with Mary, John and Sherlock are married and very in love  
> D. Mycroft and Greg are married. Greg has a son named Harvey

Sherlock couldn’t sleep, and as such, John couldn’t sleep. Sherlock had wrapped himself around John and in the dim moonlight of their bedroom, he was feather-whispering his fingers along each of John's many, _many_ , accessible scars. His fingers would dance reverently over John's top-surgery scars and, with a light touch, map out the topography of John's gunshot wound, then glide over half a dozen easily reached smaller marks. After more than half an hour John sighed and stopped trying to sleep.

“What’s wrong?” he asked lowly in the dark of their room. The night wrapped around them like a cocoon. Their last case, a jealous lover who had locked his partner in a crawl space in a bid to keep her with him, was fading away for John, yet had obviously awoken something for his husband.

“Nothing,” Sherlock whispered back. John rolled his eyes in the dark.

“Sherlock, love, talk to me? I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, remember?” John said as he reached up and wrapped his free arm around Sherlock, pulling the taller man in close.

“I…” Sherlock trailed off. John could hear him swallow before speaking again. “Do you ever get thoughts in your head? Ideas and desires, and no matter how hard you try they won’t go away?”

“Of course,” John furrowed his brow, “I imagine most people do. Why do you ask?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment before his hands clutched John and pulled him close. “I always wonder… what will it be.”

“What will _what_ be?” John asked, a bit concerned now.

“What will drive you away? What will I say or do that will finally snap what we have between us? What will make you leave me?” Sherlock's voice had gone far off and melancholy, his hands no longer gripping John, just running along his skin, as if he feared the soldier would stand and leave right this moment.

“Well considering we’re married, very little save harming innocents and infidelity, I’d imagine.” John tried to joke. Sherlock was silent for a long moment before he began to pull away. John immediately grabbed him and pulled him closer. “Hey! Hey, where are you going?” John felt his heart beat faster.

“What if that’s what I want?”

“To have an affair?” John asked incredulously. Sherlock sighed his “ _don’t be an idiot_ ” sigh and John could see his mass of curls shaking in the dim light.

“No, John, what if I want… to hurt someone innocent?”

John sat for a moment, processing. Sherlock, by nature, was not a very violent person, he took no special pleasure in the pain of others. Save a few people ( _Moriarty, the drunk driver who caused the crash that killed Victor, perhaps the sniper who shot John, and the worst of the worst criminals they encountered_ ) John couldn’t possibly picture Sherlock feeling any kind of joy at any person’s pain, especially someone innocent. Crimes with violence towards innocent people, namely children, could easily send Sherlock into a rage. The idea of this stoically calm man, who had a stranglehold on his emotions, finding pleasure in the pain of an innocent person was outlandish.

Apparently, John had been silent too long, because suddenly Sherlock began to try and pull away once more. Again, John tightened his hold and pulled the man down. John situated them so they were face to face in the dark, arms wrapped around one and other.

“Sherlock _talk_ to me. What’s going on in that big head of yours? Who do you want to hurt?” John spoke gently. Sherlock bowed his head in shame.

“You.” The detective breathed out. It was lower than a mumble, a sound so low it was felt and not heard. Shy, uncertain, laced with shame.

“Me?” John asked in confusion. Sherlock nodded his head. He had a few false starts before he could finally explain. John stayed quiet, patient with this man. Always patient with this man. _Always_.

“I… I’m no better than that man today. I want to own you.” Sherlock started haltingly, “I want… I want everything you do and say to belong to me. I want every word you speak to be for me alone. I want you to always be looking at me, I want every thought of wonder to be inspired by me. I want… I want every bad memory, every fear, ever horror to be chased away by me and me alone.” Sherlock stopped, John could see his eyes closed tight as he held John closer and closer.

“I want… I know all of that is impossible. I know you wouldn’t be _you_ if I was your whole world like that. And barring all that, what I want most in the world, what I was thinking of…

Sherlock traced his fingers over a small scar on Johns' bicep, “I want to excise your scars, I want to cut them from you very skin, so that when they heal, they’ll belong to me. Every mark, every wound old and new, every blemish, every scar will be _mine_. Well…” Sherlock's fingers traced over Johns top-surgery scars and his gunshot wound. “Every scar but _these_. These I’d leave. I love these, I’m _grateful_ to them. This one…” Sherlock sighed dreamily and traced long fingers over the identical scars running under Johns pecs.

“You wouldn’t be you without it, would you? Wouldn’t be happy or comfortable in your own skin. You’d be sad, I’d still love you, of course, but I don’t think you’d love yourself. I don’t want that. I want you to love your skin, I want you to love it as much as I love it. I want you to see what I see when you look in the mirror.” Sherlock pushed lightly on Johns' shoulder, so he was half on his back, then Sherlock laid a kiss upon the scars. John gasped, shocked, dazed, still processing. Sherlock had never paid much attention to John’s surgery scars. Occasionally he’d tug and teeth at John’s reconstructed nipples, though there wasn’t much sensation in them. But John never complained of course, as it brought Sherlock pleasure to lay love bites upon his husband.

“And this one,” Sherlock whispered in awe, drawing John back to him. The detective pressed on Johns gunshot wound, his voice breathy when he spoke. “This scar I _worship_ , I would lay myself at an alter to this scar and everything it signifies. Without this, we’d have never met, you’d have never been put in my path. Where would we have been, had you been left to your own accords? You’d have stayed in the army until you found yourself unable to hold a gun, and probably past that. You’d have never come home at all, would you? And we’d have never met, you’d have never put me back together. You know that, right John? You know you took all my broken pieces and made something of the nothing I was before you, you know that, don’t you, my love?” Sherlock was crying now; John could feel the tears hitting his skin where Sherlock was half laying over him.

“Oh love,” John breathed, smoothing his hand through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sniffled, rubbing his face and tears into John’s skin, fingers still digging into the soldier’s gunshot wound.

“I’m sorry, John, I- I’m not right in the head. I know I’m not. I’m not like normal people… I, I try so hard but…” Sherlock hiccupped out between gasps. John shushed him gently.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving. Not over this.” John soothed and Sherlock’s tears picked up.

“You _should_ leave. You’re a fool not to. I just admitted to wanted to hurt you, to make you bleed, to cut your very skin from your body!”

“Maybe I’d react differently if I didn’t feel exactly the same,” John admitted quietly. After a moment of silence, John expanded, “sometimes, when I’m working on a victim, or fighting, or even when I just say something that spurs god knows what in that amazing mind of yours, god, Sherl. The way you _look_ at me. It’s arousal and amazement and wonder. As if I’m something precious, something treasured, something… something _fantastic_. You make me feel like I’m… like I’m perfect. Just perfection incarnate. I’m 10ft tall and the picture of masculinity in your eyes. And somedays I want to keep it. I want to bottle those moments, every time your eyes turn away, I want to force them back to me. I know what you’re feeling. I don’t fault you for it. Maybe it’s not the healthiest, but it’s understandable. It’s _not_ like that man today. Because you’d never really hurt me, you couldn’t. Not without hurting yourself. We’re too intertwined.”

Sherlock, after a moment of processing, pulled John in so tightly John felt his bones creak before laying his head on the older man’s chest. “You’re a bloody fool.” Sherlock sniffled. John smiled at the ceiling, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

“Yea, but I’m _your_ fool.”

“Are you?” Sherlock breathed in wonder.

“Yea,” John whispered roughly, “I’m yours. Only yours, a separation from you wouldn’t just break me, love. It’d destroy me. There’d be _nothing_. I’m yours through and through. From the top of my head to the soles of my feet, it’s all yours.”

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped in wonder, relaxing against John.

“But,” John continued, “if I’m yours, that means you’re mine. From the curls on your head to the tips in your toes, you’re mine Sherlock Watson-Holmes. That ring on your finger means we belong to each other. Until we die, and probably after, if there’s anything next. Come hell or high water, we’re stuck together. We’re inseparable, you know that, right love? To disentangle one from the other would be to kill us both.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock sniffled, relaxing into Johns' arms. Finally finding rest.

As Sherlock slept, John thought.

* * *

Four months later, just after New Year’s, Sherlock came home from a day of watching Harvey. Mycroft and Gavin ( _ok, fine, he knew the man’s bloody name,_ Greg) had both had to work and as it was still Christmas break the lad was left home alone. He and Sherlock had a lovely day of dissecting human eyes and analyzing the fibrous tissues. Sherlock filed away the information in case he ever needed it, Harvey just seemed content to squish something icky. Sherlock approved of the boy immensely, though he was baffled each time the lad called him “ _Uncle Sherlock_ ”.

John had been at work all day, full shift. Runny noses, flu, colds, all manner of not fun illnesses needed to be handled, least the London masses be infected. When Sherlock arrived home, he could hear the water running in the bathroom. Presumably, John was showering off the traces of the minor illnesses and London grime. Sherlock sighed as he made his way into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. He stopped dead in his tracks, though, when he saw a small pile of medical equipment sitting on his kitchen table. His mind froze, his body went still as his brain kicked into overdrive.

On the table lay two sterilized and pre-packaged scalpels, two syringes, a vial of… ( _Sherlock picked it up_ ) yes, general anesthetic, and a box of medical rubber gloves. Sherlock frantically wracked his brain as to their purpose before whispering “ _oh_ ” in amazement and sitting with weakened knees. He was still sitting there gaping at the pile when John came out in his bathrobe. Sherlock was momentarily distracted by John’s strong calves with a fine smattering of golden hair, not yet gone silver.

“Ah, you found it,” John said cheerfully, plopping himself down in a shocked Sherlock’s lap.

“I… John, what is all this?” Sherlock asked in wonder. John smiled at him before pulling the man into a long kiss. Sherlock sighed into the doctor’s mouth, relaxing against the man on instinct.

“Happy Birthday, love,” John whispered against his lips.

“Oh _John_ ,” Sherlock said in adoration, pulling back to stare at John in amazement.

“I’ve got rules though,” John said, suddenly serious.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said breathlessly, sounding as if they were making love rather than conversing about scaring John’s skin.

“I’ve gone over every scar I could find, I’m sure you’ll manage to find one or two more. I counted, I think, 23? I can account for 20 of those. So, here’s the deal, if I can remember the story behind it, or where I got it, I’ll tell you. That way you’ll have that part of me. But if I can’t remember, or if we both decide it’s from a bad enough memory, then you can have the scar itself.”

“John,” Sherlock said, his face breaking into a large grin, tears in his eyes. His hands slipped under Johns robe, grabbing the man’s arse and kissing him breathless. John moaned in approval and slipped his fingers into Sherlock's hair, pulling him tight. After a moment, Sherlock hungrily broke away, kissing to Johns' ear and tugging on the lobe in the way that always made John go cross-eyed in pleasure.

“Oh god, fuck, Sherl, Sherl, come on, babe,” John breathlessly tugged the man away by his hair, causing Sherlock to whine. “I just cleaned so we could do this,” John said finally, blinking and breathing hard. They both sat for a moment, getting ahold of themselves.

“Ok,” Sherlock finally said, turning his head and laying a kiss on John’s inner wrist. “Where are we doing this?”

“It’s your birthday, wherever you’re most comfortable and can see best.” John shrugged. Sherlock cast his eyes about the room, before turning slightly and eyeing the living room.

“In front of the fire.”

“Ok love, I’ll lay down the towels, go wash up.”

* * *

A few minutes later found John laid out on in the living room, warmed by the fire, their chairs shoved to the side. Sherlock was staring at him seriously as he donned a pair of rubber gloves.

“Need something to mark the scars?” John asked. Sherlock just snorted and rolled his eyes before moving to Johns' toes. One gloved finger traced over a small cut on his left pinky toe. John shivered at the small touch. “Learning to use the cane, I tripped over my shitty bed in that horrible little bedsit, about a month before I met you. Never did get all the blood out the damn carpet.” Sherlock hummed.

Two fingers traced over the top of John’s right foot. “Basic training, dropped my damn pack on my foot. Hurt like a bitch, Bill Murray ‘bout pissed himself laughing at my dumb arse.” Sherlock breathed out a laugh.

And so it went. After an hour and a half, Sherlock had cataloged every cut, scrape, and pockmark on Johns’ body. There were a total of five scars John couldn’t account for ( _Sherlock found one behind his ear and one along the hair line on the back of his neck, John had no idea how those could have happened_ ) and a further two scars that, after a quiet discussion, John agreed to give to Sherlock.

One was from the chains Moriarty had used to bind him all those years ago. The cuff had dug into Johns' wrist, leaving a nearly invisible white line. John was more than happy to be rid of it. The other was the only scar John got while Sherlock was “dead”. John quietly admitted he had been seeing hallucinations of the genius while Sherlock was away. That night the imaginary Sherlock had irritated John while the man was chopping vegetables. After the fake Sherlock had pointed out how Mary Morstan _(“Who’s that?” “Nurse from my old job, I switched to the veteran’s clinic so things wouldn’t get awkward when I turned her down.”_ ) had been more than willing to “ _get off_ ” with John. John had snarled in annoyance and accidentally cut himself. When he swirled around to give the imaginary Sherlock a piece of his mind and a nice long rant about _loyalty_ , the bloody bastard had, obviously, vanished. The real Sherlock had kissed the small scar and thanked John for waiting, then said the scar was his anyway, so he wanted it again. John laughed and agreed.

The first scar was on his lower calf. Sherlock was methodical and gentle. The needle barely pinched as it slipped into Johns skin. A moment later John heard the packaging on one of the sterilized scalpels opening. Soft fingers prodded at numbed skin.

“Good?” Sherlock murmured lowly. John breathed out and nodded.

“Remember-“

“I know.” Sherlock cut him off, giving John a gentle smile before leaning over his leg, twisting it so that the light from the lamp on the floor next to them shown on it brightly. John huffed a small laugh and relaxed back.

“Don’t even know what I was going to say.” He murmured.

“ _Don’t go too deep, use the antiseptic pads first_ , blah blah blah, I know. Trust me.” John closed his eyes and smiled at the ceiling, submitting to the man at his feet.

“I do.” He breathed out. Sherlock worked quickly. Bloodstained the towel, the open flesh a gaping wound. Sherlock's name whispered in every drop of blood. Sherlock stared at it in amazement for a moment, before cleaning away the blood and gently bandaging his husband. John sighed in delight at the attention. By the third scar, both men were fully aroused, John had broken out in goosebumps, Sherlock had deftly unbuttoned his slacks.

Every scar was numbed, excised, then carefully bandaged. The last scar to go was the one Moriarty dared put on John. Johns' eyes flashed open when Sherlock got to that one. They stared at each other for a long moment. Johns' eyes flashed to the vial of anesthetic in Sherlock's hand.

“Don’t use it,” John ordered. Sherlock obediently sat it down. “Take them off,” John breathed, staring at his husband's hands. John was so wet he ached for it, feeling empty and needy. Sherlock instantly understood and complied, stripping off the rubber gloves. He took John’s hand gently in his own.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock said seriously as he picked up the scalpel.

“I love you too.” John breathed, tearing up a little, clenching his left hand. “Get him off my skin, love. Make it yours. Just like the rest of me.” Sherlock clenched his jaw, blinking back tears quickly before nodding resolutely.

The nearly invisible line was cut along both sides, the very skin removed instead of the scar simply being open back up as Sherlock had done with the other smaller scars. John hissed in pain but held still, staring at Sherlock the whole time. When all was done Sherlock set the scalpel and the stripe of removed flesh to the side, cradling John’s hand to his chest, smearing his white button-down with John’s blood.

“Sherlock,” John hiccupped out, no longer hiding his tears. Silently, staring at John with an intensity that flayed Johns soul, just as the man had flayed his skin, Sherlock brought the wound to his mouth. He licked at the blood, gnawing on the skin, opening the wound further, ensuring a mottled stripe of white scar would take the place of the only physical sign of Moriarity's assault.

“He never had you, John. _Never_.” Sherlock said, placing a kiss on the skin.

John sobbed then, truly sobbed, nodding furiously, telling himself Sherlock was right. He felt… a release of tension. No matter how many years went by, no matter how rotted Moriarity's corpse became from its place in the earth, no matter he had been witness to Sebastian Moran’s death, John could still _feel_ them sometimes. Some nights Moran’s hands gripped his hips, Moran’s weight and heat settled over his body, pressing him down, pressing into him. Moriarity's voice and fingers still grasping his hair, whispering across his skin, wrapping itself around his soul. Some nights he still awoke, afraid, reaching for Sherlock, like a child scared of a thunderstorm.

John roughly pulled Sherlock on top of him, grasping his husband’s shirt. “Please?” he ground out, arching. His body burning, the past reducing to ash, if only for a moment. Sherlock clumsily stripped and situated himself between Johns' legs. When he reached a hand down to stretch John, the soldier frantically grabbed his wrist.

“No!” he cried in desperation, tugging Sherlock down insistently. Sherlock hesitated for a moment. They had never done this, Sherlock always took the time to stretch John, to ensure he was wet enough, to make sure that John never felt a moment of discomfort. But John didn’t want that today. He wanted Sherlock in him, nothing, not even artificial lubrication between them. Sherlock hesitated but whispered a quiet “ _ok_ ”, before beginning to push in.

John gasped, he felt his whole body relaxing, so unlike that night. It burned a little, the stretch a delight instead of a torment, the friction heavenly instead of cruel. His wrist dripped warm blood down his forearm as Sherlock bottomed out. The blood smeared across Sherlock's pale back, catching in the man’s own scars as it smeared across his skin. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock, arching into the man.

“You ok?” Sherlock gasped, lifting on an elbow to look down at John. John smiled through his tears.

“It- it doesn’t hurt.” He hiccupped a little, both hands grasping Sherlock's hair, pulling the man in for a gentle kiss.

John tasted blood, the fire warmed him, Sherlock was liberating over him, his weight and warmth a freedom, not an imprisonment. So like that night, yet so totally _different_. Every breath John took was filled with the aroma of Baker Street, tea and gunpowder, gun oil, violin rosin, lingering cigarette smoke. And Sherlock, god, fuck, the smell of _Sherlock_ , the smell of their life together. Their love, their own personal heaven. John gave a half-laugh, half gasp in delight as they writhed by the fire.

They whispered words of love into each other’s skin, primal sounds of desire and adoration filling the spaces in between. John clung to Sherlock and Sherlock to John. Sherlock pressed his thumb into the gaping wound on Johns' wrist, causing both men to gasp in delight every few minutes.

After a moment, or an eternity Sherlock began gasping for breath as he picked up speed, fucking into John hard and fast. John groaned in pleasure as his head thumped back against the floor.

“Bite me,” John groaned, offering his wounded shoulder. Sherlock gasped, looking down at the man in wonder.

“ _John_ ,” his voice was broken.

“Make it scar.” John ordered in his soldier’s voice. Sherlock blinked; his face full of devotion as tears tracked down his cheeks. He nodded and fell on John. John couldn’t help the yelp of pain as Sherlock bit past scar roughened skin, tearing into the man. When Sherlock let go, he looked down at the wound, his eyes dark, his mouth red with blood. Then he shut his eyes, almost surprised, and groaned as he came. They lay still for a moment, Johns' head tilted back, mind lost in a haze of pleasure.

Suddenly Sherlock scrambled down Johns’ body, John lifted his head, grunting in displeasure as his lovely, wonderful source of heat suddenly disappeared. Then his legs were thrown over Sherlock's shoulders and the man buried his face between Johns' thighs.

“Oh fuck,” John gasped, craning his neck backward as Sherlock ate him out. It was filthy and wonderful, so perfect. Sherlock paid no mind to his own spend dripping from John, tongue filling the doctor, almost non-existent stubble rubbing against Johns’ sensitive lips.

“Sherlock,” John groaned, twisting and writhing, trying to get Sherlock's mouth on his fucking prick.

His shoulder screamed in agony; his wrist twinged in pain. Oh fuck, Christ, he needed to come. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment, lifting his head to eye John. John moaned at the sight, Sherlock’s own spend on his lips and chin, Johns’ slick wetting his lips, and fuck, Johns’ blood stained his mouth. Sherlock analyzed him for a moment before slowly lowering his mouth, finally, fucking _finally_ , tonguing and sucking on John’s prick. John felt his breath come heavier and heavier, his body twisting before he cried out in a gasp. Sherlock's name on his lips.

In the after-math Sherlock gently cleaned Johns’ body, the whole time his face was pulled in amazement. As though he had done something magical. John just smiled at Sherlock with the same look on his face. Fully nude, they lay together by the fire, silent and comforted. Sherlock's fingers gently traced over the teeth marks on John's shoulder, and the flayed skin of his wrist. John sighed in comfort as the anesthesia began to wear off and his other small scars made their presence known. Each ache felt like a point of contact between himself and Sherlock. Each pull of scabbing skin was a miracle, a modern wonder. No god, no heaven could ever compete to this, to this moment, to this soul-deep connection, to this love.

“Thank you,” Sherlock sighed after a while, laying a kiss on the crown of Johns' head.

“Happy 40th, love.” John murmured with a smile on his face.


End file.
